


The Simple Questions

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, Fingering, First Time, Humor, Incest, Kink: Intoxication and altered states, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pre-Series, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a simple, clichéd question. The kind Michael knows he shouldn’t wonder about where it came from but he can’t help it because this is how his brain works. (Pre-series, crackastic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Simple Questions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Rounds of Kink XXI.

It starts with a simple, clichéd question. The kind Michael knows he shouldn’t wonder about where it came from but he can’t help it because this is how his brain works. Or doesn’t work, in this case.

“You’ve ever done it with a dude?” Lincoln asks him.

Michael is a little drunk, a little high, and totally slumped in his couch. Lincoln is hardly in better condition, which means he’s had more booze and pot than Michael because, resistance to those substances? Yeah, they’re not on an equal footing here.

Michael doesn’t ask what ‘it’ is. No, that’s not what he asks. He’s not _that_ trashed. What he asks is, “Why do you ask?”

“You look like the kind of dude who has done it with a dude.” Then, without waiting for the answer and even less giving Michael time to figure out whether Lincoln is or isn’t judgmental about any possible answers: “Carla has done it.”

Michael furrows his brow.

“She’s done it with a dude?”

“With a girl. Focus, man!”

Oh.

“Who’s Carla?”

“Veronica’s girlfriend.”

“Carla has done it with Vee?”

“No!” Lincoln almost shouts, exasperated by his brother’s unusual inability to follow a conversation. Maybe Lincoln shouldn’t have given him booze and pot if he wanted Michael to follow the conversation. Which is un-followable anyway. “Not that kind of girlfriend, dumbass.”

There’s a pause in the discussion. When Michael glances at Lincoln, Lincoln has this dreamy expression on his face, the one that has Michael rolling his eyes.

“You’re picturing the scene?” A nod. “With you in the middle?” Another nod, accompanied with a shrug meant to stress the obviousness of the answer.

Michael takes a drag. Oddly enough, it clears his mind about where Lincoln’s heading. Maybe this is why he doesn’t always get his brother? Not enough pot and booze? He throws an arm above his head, limp and lazy. His tee-shirt rides up his stomach, and Lincoln watches – gazes – as though he’s never seen bare skin before. Whatever.

“If you wonder how it is, you should just try, Linc. No big deal,” he suggests.

Then, he blacks out for a blissful few seconds; or hours. He’s dragged back to reality by the cushions of the sofa dipping beside his hips, something warm pressing against his left thigh, and something even warmer wrapping around his knee.

He opens his eyes wide. He doesn’t know how or when, but Linc’s not in his armchair on the other side of the coffee table anymore. Linc’s sitting by his side, and Linc’s huge paw is stroking his knee in a way meant to be sexy and failing to be – or maybe not failing so much, but Michael is so not going there.

“Not with me, asshole!” he says – _says_ , mind you, not squeals or screeches. Michael doesn’t squeal or screech. He’s a grown-up man and all.

Lincoln gives a come-hither look, green-blue eyes all soft and smoldering and heavy-lidded. It’s so totally over the top, there’s no way it works with any sensible human being, be it a woman or a man. It seriously looks like something out of a bad soft core porn movie (and yes, Michael is aware there are at least two kinds of redundancy in that expression).

“Come on, Mikey...” Right, add the sugary-honey voice to the porn-eyes, it will work so much better. “We don’t even have to fuck.” How Lincoln can sound like he’s making a concession here, Michael will never know. “I just wanna make out a bit. Who else can I trust enough to ask him that?”

“Try Derek. Or I don’t know, crazy idea: try _not_ sleeping with a man.”

“Hey, you’re the one who told me I should try it.” He was. It didn’t mean... “And dude, you’re sick; Derek is like a bro for me!”

Michael blinks at him dazedly. On second thought, maybe he holds his liquor and pot better than Lincoln?

“Seriously, Linc? _Seriously_?”

“Aww, pretend you’ve never thought about it anyway, cupcake.”

Michael opens his mouth. And doesn’t say anything. Anything at all. It has to be the pot and the booze because, otherwise, why would the very obvious, very normal and logical words, ‘No, Linc, I’ve never thought of having sex with my brother’ refuse to come out?

Wait. Maybe ‘come out’ was a poor choice of words.

“We can always blame it on the booze,” Lincoln adds, voice as honey-like as ever. “Fuck, it is because of the booze.”

And the pot, Michael agrees inwardly. He feels light-headed, images and yearnings he experienced a few times and pushed down suddenly popping up and hitting him in the face. And, you know, lower.

Maybe, maybe, it has crossed his mind a couple of times when they smoked and partied and watched porn together before. (Is it normal to watch porn with your big brother? Shit. His head is starting to hurt and throb. His head and his groin. Shit.)

Then, something weird, very weird, weirder than the whole night, happens. Michael pictures Derek’s hands on Lincoln, their stomachs rutting against one another’s, and there’s this, like, huge flash of blazing, blinding fire hitting the back of his head (and once again, also somewhat much lower).

Lincoln lifts his hand off Michael’s knee.

“No,” Michael says.

“No what?”

“No, I haven’t done it with a dude, and no, don’t move your hand.”

Lincoln does move his hand, but he moves it upward and a bit more inside of Michael’s thigh, a few millimeters from his crotch, which is totally okay. Not okay in the sense that it’s what should happen, but okay in the sense that...

Oh, fuck it.

Lincoln’s eyes shine with too much glee now, bad soft-core porno movie face forgotten.

“So I’ll be your first, Mike?”

Isn’t Lincoln always the first for him? Although that might be pushing the metaphor a tad too far.

—

They don’t kiss on the mouth. Tacit rule. They pet and fondle and caress over their clothes; they nuzzle and nip at each other’s jaw and neck; they chuckle at how odd and oddly good it feels; but they don’t kiss. Lincoln’s hands are huge and warm, and it’s possible that Michael writhes and squirms to lure them where he wants them. Still, he startles when they reach his belly and trails over his abs before aiming for his belt buckle.

“That’s okay?” Lincoln asks, already working his tee-shirt off and his fly open.

It feels good, and Michael surrenders.

Yeah, all right, Michael doesn’t surrender. Surrendering would have implied some kind of resistance at some point. So Michael surrenders, if by ‘surrendering’ he means reciprocating and tugging on Lincoln’s clothes until he can touch some skin. More skin. Always more skin. Who would have thought that Lincoln’s skin was so warm and smooth on his back? And on his stomach, too, by the way. Michael needs to know if it feels as silky in areas that are still covered by jeans and cotton boxer shorts. In the name of science.

His lips chaff on Lincoln’s stubble and he keeps brushing his lips over his big brother’s cheek. He loves Lincoln’s stubble; the antithesis of smooth, but very Lincolnian, just like the leather jacket, the white wife-beater or the shitty attitude.

Lincoln groans in his ear, bites his earlobe, and admits, “Fuck, you’re good at this.”

Michael’s conscience shies away at the same time and rate that his ego and his cock swell. “It’s bad.”

“That you’re good?”

“That I’m good with you.” He moans, long and needy and embarrassing, when Lincoln’s hand cups him through his jeans and... and does things... things that shouldn't make him moan in need. “You’re not bad either.”

“That’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Who cares? At this point, who gives a damn damn?

“How about we...” Michael trails off, vaguely motioning towards his bedroom.

He doesn’t need to suggest it twice.

They end up in their boxer shorts across Michael’s fresh and neat bed, a line of clothes tracing their path between the living room and the bedroom, between crazy talk and mere craziness.

“That’s... different,” Lincoln breathes out at the hard planes and strong lines of Michael’s body pressing flush against him. He tests the sharp form of his brother’s hips, the resistance of a biceps, the elasticity of his buttocks.

Michael tests and touches back. He slips his hands inside Lincoln’s shorts, grabs a handful of muscles and squeezes and kneads. It does feel different. And nice. Even more so when Lincoln bucks against him just as Michael has imagined about a dozen times that he would.

(Yes, okay, maybe, he’s thought about it more than once or twice while they partied or watched porn. They’ve always had an odd relationship.)

“We don’t... you know,” Michael whispers.

“Fuck? Yeah, if you can’t say it, we definitely shouldn’t do it.”

“Asshole. We just...”

“Make out?”

“Yes. And get off.” By now, it’s pretty much a given that getting off is going to happen – and it’s going to happen messily.

Lincoln gently slaps his ass for that because, duh, getting off is obvious, what would be the point otherwise?

They roll across the bed.

All right, they don’t roll across the bed _per se_ ; they _shift_ across the bed, awkwardly and not very graciously, until they’ve got rid of their boxers and Michael’s lying on top of Lincoln, between his splayed thighs, with Lincoln’s mouth licking his neck. No blowjob, mouths kept above the waist line seems to be another tacit rule, which makes sense because it would cross a line between making out and... something else, wouldn’t it?

On the other hand, they did cross a line already when they chucked all of their clothes. (They crossed about a thousand lines one hour ago, but that’s another story.)

Michael grinds down, loving the friction of Lincoln’s stomach against his cock, loving even more the smooth-hard sensation of Lincoln’s cock against his own. Lincoln wraps his hand around both of them – and if whoever had ever said that Linc lacked coordination, it obviously was someone who has never experienced Lincoln jerking them off while lick-kissing their neck. Purr-fect coordination.

“Feels good, cupcake?”

Michael squints at him. He really is an asshole. “Is it anything like you pictured it?” he shoots back.

“Even better.”

Michael’s mind blows off a little bit at the implication behind this admittance – that Lincoln has pictured it, pictured it with him, that...

He swallows back a scream. (Or, to put it differently, he tries to swallow back a scream, miserably fails, and screams, unable to swallow anything at all.) A thick finger, dripping with saliva, has found its way between his buttocks, and then inside of his body, pushes back and forth a few times, each time deeper, naughtier, nastier. Between that finger, the hand wrapped around his cock and the mouth against his neck, he’s kind of falling apart. So yes, a loud noise, sounding very much like a scream, breaks out of him, followed with other evidence of – well, let’s call a spade a spade – of bliss: come gushing out and making the announced mess between their bellies, body jerking as if he was held by strings and someone was pulling crazily on them, then collapsing limply as if same strings have been cut.

If he’s not mistaken, he just came. Hard and dirty, and feeling better than it has felt in... a while.

The come-hither look, still smoldering and heavy-lidded, doesn’t seem so far over the top any more. Lincoln grins at him, satisfaction and something else that Michael won’t name on his face.

“God,” Michael whimpers. “God. _This_ is making out?” He can still feel the pressure of Lincoln’s finger inside him, but he doesn’t want it to be removed.

“I have a broad definition of it,” Lincoln offers helpfully.

Breathing still ragged, Michael kisses him. He’s going to Hell for that. Sure, the rutting, the finger up his ass, the indecent orgasm may help, but that’s the kiss that will get him his one-way ticket to Hell. The kiss is filthy: soft, tender, deep, full of a kind of love you should never feel for and express to your sibling. And his reaction to Lincoln’s reaction to the kiss is even filthier: contentment, a dash of power trip, a hint of taunting, an even softer, deeper swipe of tongue, a tug of teeth on Linc’s bottom lip. Lincoln grunts, hinting that the kiss is way too much and not nearly enough at the same time.

So, since Michael’s already going to Hell for that kiss, he may as well roll his hips against Lincoln’s, slide his hand between their bodies and wrap it around Lincoln’s cock, right? He strokes him slow and hard, using his own semen to ease his caresses, and babbling into the kiss about wanting to fuck Linc and wanting Lincoln to fuck him.

Lincoln laughs, the bastard; he laughs and comes all over Michael’s hand.

Michael kisses him, kisses him until Lincoln stops laughing and closes both hands around Michael’s head to keep him in place and continue to kiss him to his – their – heart’s content. Michael’s pretty sure Lincoln mumbles something like “When?” about the reciprocated fucking Michael has just alluded to.

That’s bad.

Or good. So, so good.

That’s bad that it’s so good.

Or something like that.

—

Michael wakes up stark naked with Lincoln pressed against his back and Lincoln’s left arm draped over his hip.

It feels good – badly good – and Michael groans faintly.

It started with a simple question.

Simple questions always are the most troublesome ones.

END


End file.
